


Fanservice

by ceywoozle



Series: One Word Bottomjohn Prompts [52]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Play, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-03-04
Packaged: 2018-03-16 07:20:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3479318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceywoozle/pseuds/ceywoozle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of the One Word Bottomjohn Prompt Series.</p><p>Fanservice. That's what all this is about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fanservice

Red lights and blue, flashing and blinding. There are people everywhere. Ambulance crew and uniformed bobbies, the homicide squad suited and bleak. John is on the stretcher staring at the sky and wishing everyone would just go away.

A face hovers into view. Lestrade.

“Alright?” he asks, his voice casual but a touch of concern visible in the tightness at the corners of his eyes, the strain of his mouth.

“Yeah, course. Didn't hit anything important,” John says. “Where's Sherlock?”

“Fine. They're just checking him for concussion.”

John grunts. It hurts.  _God_ it hurts, but all he sees is Sherlock, going limp and falling, over and over and over again in his head. He tries to sit up and a hand pushes him back down. Again.

“Please stay still, Doctor Watson,” the paramedic says, the edges of impatience clear in her voice.

He scowls and subsides, but he turns his head, trying to pick out Sherlock's form in the mass of unimportant people.

So naturally Sherlock appears from the other side, and John startles at the hands that grip him, crying out at the jolt to the bullet wound in his side.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John snaps.

Sherlock says nothing. Two large hands grab John's face and John stares up at Sherlock, hovering inches above him, frantic and wide-eyed as he peers down at John.

“Sherlock—”

“You idiot!” Sherlock hisses. “How could you not have seen him there?”

“ _I'm_ the idiot?” John snarls. “Who's the one who insisted that it was all clear. That Murphy would never be so stupid as to hole up  _here.”_

Sherlock scowls and opens his mouth to argue when there's a sudden flash of light and the sound of an artificial shutter and they both look over to see Lestrade with his phone pointed at them, taking a picture.

He shrugs at them. “You're just so precious, the two of you,” he says with a smirk, and puts the phone in his pocket and walks away.

~~~~~~~~~~

Two days later, John finds it in his email with a message from Lestrade attached.

 _How's the bachelor life, John? w_ ith a stupid little winky face beside.

John opens the file and stares at the picture, the terrible combination of night time and emergency lights and the flash from the camera giving the whole thing an overexposed look. The paramedic is in the background, glaring up at John and Sherlock from under her lids, and there's John, unnaturally pale on the stretcher and hovering over him, his face inches from John's own, is Sherlock. It looks...intimate. It looks...rather like they're about to...

John frowns, sticks out his bottom lip as he stares at the photo. They are both in profile. John's lips are clamped tight and his brows are drawn down, and Sherlock's are just barely parted. One large hand is visible on the side of John's face, fingers slightly clawed as if clutching at John. There is tension visible in every line of his body, and John, looking at him, sees the fear there that he hadn't noticed when it was all happening.

He grimaces and with a deft click saves it to his hard drive, then opens up his blog and begins to painstakingly type.

He doesn't go into detail. He still sees Sherlock, falling bonelessly to the ground every time he closes his eyes, over and over and over. He doesn't want to dwell on it, but just as he finishes and he's about to click  _post_  something stops him and he pauses.

He minimises the screen and finds the photo from Lestrade in his files, and with a thoughtful uncertainty, he hesitantly uploads it to the blog post.

It hovers at the end like a badly stated suggestion and he stares at it in silence and doesn't notice when Sherlock suddenly appears at his shoulder.

“Where did you get that?” he demands, and John shakes himself free of his reverie in time to feel his face heat up and with a sort of desperate casualness he hits  _post._

“What was that?” Sherlock demands as John snaps his laptop lid closed just a little too roughly.

“From Lestrade. The photo he took of us the other night.”

Sherlock is silent for a moment and John sits in the chair suddenly regretting that he shut his computer because now he doesn't know what to do. Should he open it again? Should he get up and leave?

“Why did you post it?” Sherlock asks before John can decide. “The lighting was terrible.”

“It's business, Sherlock,” John says, trying to sound exasperated. “The readers always want photos. The lighting doesn't matter. It's just...you know...fanservice.”

“Fan what? John, you don't have fans.”

John doesn't have to fake the glare he levels on Sherlock. “Sure. Because all our clients just appear out of nowhere.”

“I have a website.”

“Yeah, right,” John says with a smirk, and gets up to make tea.

~~~~~~~~~~

They don't expect what comes next, of course. How could they?

But when they go into NSY the next morning to sign their statements everyone is looking at them, everyone is staring. There are surreptitious smiles and murmured laughs, eyes cast searchingly at them as they walk past. It's only when they're in Lestrade's office and John sees the paper on the DI's desk, opened to the third page, does John realise what he's done.

There, in full colour, is The Photo, and in large glaring letters above it the words:  _HATMAN AND ROBIN: CONFIRMED?_

John stares at it speechlessly, and beside him he feels more than sees when Sherlock's eye catches it and he freezes.

“Erm,” he says.

Sherlock snorts. “Idiot.”

Lestrade rolls his eyes at both of them. “I don't know what you expected. Anyway, it'll be great for business.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him. “How is a badly lit photograph going to be good for business?”

“Oh, you know,” Lestrade shrugs. “Fanservice and all that.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It's 2pm by the time John gets around the checking the email and he has to go four pages back before he gets to the last opened email from the night before (a statement from the bank offering a credit increase they could never afford.)

“Erm,” he says.

“For God's sake, John,” Sherlock snaps. “Surely even you haven't forgotten basic English.”

“Um. Any cases lined up right now?” he asks, ignoring the scathing comment and scrolling dazedly through the flood in his inbox.

“No. Dull.”

“Oh. Well. Good then.

~~~~~~~~~~

They don't take all the cases, of course. Most of them are twos and threes, not worth the time. But several of them are of interest, and after one particularly intriguing one involving a horse, a lamp shade, and jar of pickles, John pulls Sherlock in beside him by the collar of his coat and holds his camera in the air in front of them.

“Come here,” John says. “I want a selfie with this bloody pickle jar.”

“For God's sake, John,” Sherlock says, and turns his head inwards just as John snaps the picture, his lips inches from John's left ear.

~~~~~~~~~~

John stares at the photo on his phone for ten minutes that night. Sherlock is at the lab and the flat is quiet. The refrigerator hums in the kitchen.

John stares at the photo and remembers how Sherlock's breath had shivered against his ear.

~~~~~~~~~~

“And of course, we never could have done this without the help of Sherlock Holmes,” Lestrade says as the press cameras flash brightly in their faces.

“Can we have a picture?” a reporter asks from the front row. “Of Holmes and Watson.”

“Yeah, course,” John says before Sherlock has a chance to even open his mouth. He puts an arm around Sherlock's waist and pulls him close, the solid heat of him pressing all along his side. He tries not to flex his hand, warm and possessive above the ridge of Sherlock's hip. “Smile, Sherlock,” he says, and doesn't see the way Sherlock turns his head to look down at him until the next day when the photograph is published and he spends half his morning with the page open on the table, walking past it more times than he can possibly justify.

Sherlock is in his Mind Palace on the sofa. He doesn't notice a thing.

~~~~~~~~~~

They're eating out for the fourth time that week. They can afford it easily now, with the number of cases coming in.

John insists that Sherlock eats, and though Sherlock frowns and pouts, he does order an appetizer and dessert before disappearing to the toilets.

The waitress has brought their drinks and Sherlock still isn't back so John gets up to look for him, nightmares of assassinations lurking in his mind. But when he reaches the narrow staircase to the basement loo he finds Sherlock, trapped on the bottom step with a wide-eyed young man between him and escape.

“I read all your posts, and Doctor Watson's too, of course. I've saved all the newspaper clippings that you're in. I'd love to show you some time. Over drinks, because I know you don't like to eat.”

“Sherlock,” John says loudly, cutting the boy off. And he is a boy. Barely twenty years old. The kid turns to see who's interrupting and Sherlock takes the chance to push past him on the stairs and bound the last few steps up to John.

“Took you long enough,” Sherlock scowls, and draws breath to say more before suddenly John's hand is on his coat collar and tugging him down and there is the barest brush of lips between them before John is stepping away again, backing up and holding the door open to let Sherlock go through.

“Wondered where you got to, love,” John says and his voice is utterly calm but he can feel the burn in his cheeks and the faint pressure still against his lips.

“Erm,” Sherlock says, and glances back at the boy on the stairs who is staring at the pair of them like all his dreams have just come true.

“Come on, darling,” John says. “Drinks are here.”

Sherlock's mouth snaps closed and he says nothing as he strides past John.

When the food comes, they eat in absolute silence.

~~~~~~~~~~

“John.”

John squeezes his eyes shut and grimaces to himself before turning around to face his flatmate, still standing in the door with his coat.

“Listen,” he says. “It was just...trying to rescue you. And he obviously wanted a show. There wasn't any harm.”

Sherlock stares at him. “Fanservice,” he says flatly.

“Yeah,” John nods eagerly. “Exactly. Listen, I won't—that is, I won't—ah—Sherlock. Sherlock, what are you doing?”

The table is pressing into the backs of his thighs and Sherlock is above him, inches away and staring down with narrowed eyes.

“Sherlock?” John says carefully. He can feel his face heating up and his heart beat seems ridiculously loud all of a sudden. “What—that is—what are you—”

“Fanservice, John,” Sherlock says, and his voice is low and very quiet. “That's what you're calling it, aren't you?” And he puts a hand against the back of John's neck and kisses him.

It is not a peck. It isn't even a brush. Sherlock's lips are soft and wet and insistent and they press over John's with a firm determination that doesn't leave room for breathing or thinking.

John tries to speak, tries to say something, but as soon as he opens his mouth to attempt it a tongue slips in and swallows the words, and a few seconds later, the thought that was behind them as well. John makes a noise and there isn't anything even remotely coherent about it.

There are hands on him. Fingers in his hair, on his back, sliding downwards to bracket his hips then slipping behind to cup the the cheeks of his arse. They start to knead, deliberate and unhesitating and John can't even remember what it was like to breathe.

It's only when Sherlock's lips start to travel, pressing soft kisses at the corner of his mouth, his cheek, his neck, his throat, that John remembers to drag in a gasping breath and he feels more than hears Sherlock's low chuckle against the skin of his throat when he does.

“Honestly, John,” Sherlock murmurs, the words pressed like a physical presence into his ear. “Did you actually think you were being clever?”

“Sherlock.”

“Shut up, John. You'll just sound like an idiot.”

“Piss off,” John says, and rediscovers control of his body in time to find himself turned forcibly around, his back pulled against Sherlock's front, and he feels with a brand new clarification just what it's like to have a man's hard cock pressed up against his arse. He groans and Sherlock laughs into his ear.

“What's that, John? I didn't hear you.”

“I'm going to kill you,” John moans, and Sherlock grins and nips with sharp teeth at his ear lobe.

“Dull,” he says, and deftly undoes John's trousers and pushes them down. “Try again,” he says.

“I'm never making you tea again,” John pants between attempts to breathe, and Sherlock's teeth find the back of his neck.

“Wrong,” Sherlock says, and the long length of his cock, hot and damp and hard, slips in to settle in the cleft of John's arse.

John whimpers and pushes back and feels it sliding along the place where his body opens up and he tries to find words to force out of his open mouth, but all that comes out is a huff of noise that sounds far too much like  _“Please.”_

Sherlock chuckles and thrusts his cock in the crease of John's arse. “Good boy,” he says, and reaches around John and takes his penis, bobbing and twitching against his belly, tightly in his hand.

“Good boy,” he says again, and John tries to object, except that the hand is moving now, the foreskin sliding up and down the shaft, Sherlock's thumb sliding with every pump of his hand over the head of John's cock.

“Honestly, John,” Sherlock says. “Basic English,” and presses his teeth against the side of John's neck. and John comes with an open-mouthed cry that's torn from him, arching back into Sherlock who pulls him against him, his hand working against John's cock, dragging every last convulsion from his twitching body. And when the last drop of come is wrung from him, a hand presses down against his back and John finds himself face down on the table, his cheek against the newspaper, still open to the press photo of Sherlock staring down at him.

Sherlock's cock, heavy and hard, pushes at the crease of his arse where that small opening clenches with the last convulsions of his orgasm.

“Sherlock,” John says, or tries to say, but his tongue is heavy in his mouth and he doesn't actually know what he wants, anyway. He feels indescribably boneless, but he can feel the way his hips are already pressing back, trying to meet that pressure from behind.

A broad hand keeps him still, settles on the base of his spine. “Hush, John,” Sherlock says, and there's the press of something solid and slippery and enormous suddenly against John's hole and John's mouth opens again, either in protest or something else. It doesn't matter, though, because it doesn't go any further. Simply settles there, pushing tight against the entrance and John can hear the slap of skin on skin and he knows without looking that Sherlock is wanking himself off with his cock against John's arsehole.

“Sherlock!” he says, properly this time, and he tries to prop himself up, to turn around, to look, because he wants to see what it looks like. He wants to see if Sherlock's cock is really as big as it feels, what it looks like with the tip of it pressing at the tight rim of his hole, but the hand on his back reappears, is insistent, pushing him back down and a low voice growls at him to stay still, and barely ten seconds later Sherlock gives a grunt and John feels it, the hot pulsing blossom of come against his hole, spreading against his skin and sliding down his crease to slip down his balls and his thighs, hot and wet and unbearably obscene.

And then there is a weight, solid and draping and Sherlock collapses against his back, panting into his neck and twitching with the aftershocks and he presses kisses, lazy and hot against the back of John's neck.

“Good boy,” he pants, soft and slow into John's ear.

“Fuck off,” John says, and the newspaper crinkles under his cheek as he tries to smile.

~~~~~~~~~

It is the next day and they are drinking the tea that Sherlock has made while John eases his way indolently through the crossword and Sherlock is browsing the obituaries. Sherlock makes a sound of suddenly remembering something and pulls his phone from his pocket.

“Here,” he says, and passes it to John, and John takes it and stares at the screen and it takes several seconds for him to realise what he's seeing: a shaky video of a very large cock pressing just at the entrance of a very small hole.

John looks up and see the edge of a smirk as Sherlock turns back to the paper in his hands.

“Fanservice, John,” he says, and laughs.


End file.
